


Flew Too High

by Inell



Series: Teeny Fic Challenge [17]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Childhood Friends, Friends to Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Kissing, London, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, POV Jackson Whittemore, Post-Kanima Jackson Whittemore, Post-Nogitsune Stiles Stilinski, post-season 3b, very mild
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-20
Updated: 2017-02-20
Packaged: 2018-09-25 22:02:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9847961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inell/pseuds/Inell
Summary: They’ve both been there before, know what it’s like, and, together, maybe they can heal.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Anonymous said: Jackson/Stiles & Anonymous said: Stiles/Jackson
> 
> Gah, I love these two together. I hope y’all enjoy this, Nonnies! Teeny Fic #17
> 
> Though my eyes could see I still was a blind man  
> Though my mind could think I still was a mad man  
> I hear the voices when I'm dreaming,  
> I can hear them say
> 
> Carry on My Wayward Son by Kansas

****

****

The flat’s dark when they stumble in from the pub down the street. Jackson switches on the light, blinking at the sudden brightness. Stiles is flushed and smiling, the real smile that’s slightly crooked and makes his eyes look like molten gold. The scent of ale is on his breath as he leans in towards Jackson, twisting with the scent that is just Stiles and the sweet aroma of arousal that he’s getting used to after the past few days.

“Did you plan this when you sent me that ticket?” Stiles asks, the alcohol loosening his tongue. Stiles talks a lot, but Jackson’s noticed that he doesn’t actually say very much. There are words and flailing hands and a variety of interesting thoughts, but the personal details are rarely present. He keeps himself guarded now in a way that he never did before, and it makes Jackson’s heart hurt to know what caused it.

Not that he’s ever going to let Stiles know that he’s realized there’s a difference.

“What? You getting pissed at the local pub and making heart eyes at me?” Jackson drawls, arching a brow and flashing his best smirk. “The latter is totally a given, Stiles. The former isn’t much of a stretch, either.”

“You’re such a cocky asshole,” Stiles says, his tone fond as he reaches out to touch Jackson’s face. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone that you’re secretly a softie.”

“A softie?” Jackson snorts, rolling his eyes as he shuts the door and locks it. “You’re drunk, Stiles.”

“Nope. I only had like four beers.” Stiles kisses him soundly on the cheek, a wet kiss that makes a smacking sound in the quiet flat, then he’s stumbling over his own feet as he takes his jacket off.

“Let me help. You’re likely to trip and break your nose.” Jackson follows him, noticing the additions to his apartment that have shown up in the weeks that Stiles has been there. The tacky tourists souvenirs, the postcards of various places they’ve driven around London, the scarf that Jackson bought him at a village market, a candle that Stiles insists smells like the preserve back home, and any number of other random crap that Jackson shouldn’t stand being piled around.

Only, he likes it. Likes feeling like this cold, empty flat is full of warmth and life for the first time since he moved to London. His parents bought him this place then dumped him here, unable to handle all the drama and issues that he’d been dealing with at the time. Jackson’s still broken, knows there’s part of him that’ll never fit together right anymore, but he’s been getting better. When Danny told him about what happened back home, he’d not hesitated at all before he’d bought a ticket to London in Stiles’ name and sent it without any kind of accompanying note.

It turns out that childhood friendships don’t ever truly go away, even if they grow apart and become more enemy than friend.

Stiles is tugging his t-shirt over his head when Jackson gets to the bedroom. He moves his gaze slowly over Stiles’ back, preening slightly when he sees the marks he left last night, licking his lips when he visually traces the pattern of moles that covers the smooth skin like paint splattered on a canvas. He clears his throat as he steps forward. “I’m going to get you some water.”

“Ugh. You’re so fussy,” Stiles mutters, giving him a crooked smile even as he complains about Jackson trying to be his dad or something.

“If you ever call me Daddy, you’re on the first flight back to California,” Jackson teases, snorting a laugh when Stiles blushes, red blotches covering his face and chest.

“Real funny, asshole,” Stiles says, throwing his plaid shirt at Jackson’s head. “If anyone’s gonna be called Daddy, it’d be me. Even slightly tipsy, I’m the boss of you, and don’t you forget it.”

“Let’s just rule out daddy kink right now,” Jackson suggests, stepping forward and kissing Stiles hard, licking into his mouth and pulling away slowly. He’s smug when he watches Stiles blink and gape at him. “You might be the boss, but that doesn’t mean I’m just going to sit and take it, smartass.”

“Who needs water? Not me.” Stiles pulls his head back in and kisses him, moving his leg up on Jackson’s hip until Jackson huffs a laugh into the kiss and picks him up. Stiles wraps his long legs around his waist then, rolling his hips and deepening the kiss.

The sex started last week. In hindsight, Jackson thinks it’s always been there, the attraction and need that he can’t really describe, but he’s not sure if it means anything to Stiles or if it’s just a way to chase away nightmares and dispel the voices in his head as he sleeps. Jackson knows about that, after all. Remembers his own experiences trying to chase the pain away, fucking an endless parade of strangers in night clubs until he’d realized that didn’t really help anything.

If fucking him means that Stiles isn’t out having sex with strangers, Jackson is willing to indulge his need. Not that Jackson is an unwilling participant or anything. No, his feelings have always been there, mixed up with childish idolization of his first best friend and anger at that friendship breaking apart and desire for someone who refused to give him the attention he craved despite totally wanting him. Now, there’s also the recognition of someone who has been to hell and back and survived, just like he has. It makes it more serious, in a way, that understanding they have of each other that no one else can ever have.

Sex with Stiles is unbelievably good. There’s a battle at times, a bit of rough, and so much passion that Jackson gets carried away with it every single time. He’s not so gone that he’s going to say it’s the best he’s ever had, but it’s pretty damn close. He needs it just as much as Stiles does, losing himself in the taste and feel and scents, escaping reality for a few blissful moments as his instincts take over and he gives and he takes and he lets himself be consumed.

After is the best part, not that Jackson’s _ever_ admitting that.

After is when Stiles pulls out of him and carefully cleans him up. When Stiles strokes his damp hair and kisses his face and snuggles against him. When Jackson listens to Stiles’ heartbeat, listens to his breathing even out. When Jackson shifts them around, carding his fingers through Stiles’ hair as he holds Stiles against his chest.

It’s when Stiles eventually drifts off to sleep, finally able to get a few hours of peace without the nightmares waking him screaming. When Jackson whispers things that he’ll never admit when Stiles is awake. When he lets himself _want_ so damn much. When he tightens his grip and closes his own eyes, ready for a night without visions of death and blood and screaming. When he wonders if maybe, just maybe, he should buy a one way ticket back when it’s time for Stiles to head home to California.


End file.
